


arms, legs, gut, face.

by stokedstoker



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Insecurity, Internalised Fatphobia, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, body issues, im literally just projecting, thoughts of self harm, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stokedstoker/pseuds/stokedstoker
Summary: just a vent fic where im projecting my body issues onto martin really
Kudos: 6





	arms, legs, gut, face.

**Author's Note:**

> warning, this fic could possibly be triggering. be safe, this is a vent fic
> 
> includes:  
> thoughts of s/h  
> body hatred  
> 

martin doesn't know what he expects to see.

he stands in front of his bathroom mirror quietly, staring at the pale expanse of freckled flesh in the mirror. fold upon fold upon stretchmark upon stretchmark. he sighs. at this point he doesn't have the energy left in him to be sad, lifting his stomach slightly to observe the stretchmarks on the underside. new ones are forming there. red and ugly and reaching around the swell of his gut. he halfheartedly squeezes the flesh in his hands, staring at it silently in the mirror. he feels sick. he recalls once upon a time clutching onto hope about his body- comparing memories of seeing other stretch-marks and thinking that they didn't matter as long as they weren't on his stomach. that maybe he had at least _some_ hope in being seen as attractive. of course, thats in the gutter now. he drops the part of his stomach he's holding, watching it slink back down to where it sits and droops, slightly overhanging his underwear.

he remembers when it never used to do that- hang over his briefs. he also held onto hope about that too, that he wasn't ugly as long as it didn't hang over. they were weird standards, yes, but they gave him hope. they made him think that maybe- just maybe- there was hope that his hatred for his body was only because of a gangled mess of unrealistic beauty standards and childhood trauma. now he's scared that maybe his hatred for his body is justified. that his mother was right, that he couldn't even fit into the beauty standards for chubby people, that he's just an ugly piece of shit that couldn't look good even if he tried.

its stupid- he thinks maybe he could handle being fat if he had a pretty face. he's seen so many beautiful fat people, beautiful chubby people. but no- he's ugly on top of everything else. its funny, because he even tries to convince himself that maybe its only in his head. he knows of so many people who are beautiful but think of themselves as unattractive- funnily enough, he thought maybe he could be one of them. he hoped so fucking desperately that maybe he wasn't actually the disgusting amalgamation of fat and lopsided features he saw himself as. theres not much hope for that now, though.

his arms hang limply at his sides, staring at his body until it feels foreign, like it isn't his. his lovehandles stick out, his rolls lay folded atop each other, his stretchmarks zigzag along the swells and curves of his body, his face sits round and fat atop his shoulders. god- he wonders what mum would think if she saw him now. his fists clench, tears building in his eyes. he hates how much her opinion means to him- how her comments left such an impact on him. he hates that every time he looks in a fucking mirror he hears her voice- her completely just commentary on his disgusting body.

 _imagine spending the labour of childbirth on a disgusting kid like martin fucking blackwood._ he tells himself, grimacing slightly in the mirror. he deserves his mothers comments. the way she'd gasp when she saw a glimpse of stretchmarks on a shirt that rode up, the way he'd pinch his rolls, the way she commented on his lovehandles. comments about his eating habits in public, in front of people. jokes about his weight to people who's opinions he cared about. every backhanded compliment about hoping martin would lose weight because there were some aspects to his body that weren't all horrible. the absence of apologies.

he sniffles and lets his eyes skim his thighs, chest, stomach, arms, face. a stray tear escapes his eye that he brushes aside immediately, eyebrows furrowing in upset. he hates his body so fucking much. he hates it to the point of finding comfort in the idea of it being torn apart, of it being so obliterated that he cant see any of it anymore. only blood and fat and tattered skin- no discernible form. just blood. just pain. just nothing. the urge to rake his nails as hard as he can against his stomach and thighs is overwhelming. 

he instead opts to leave the bathroom, get dressed and make a cup of tea.

a cup of tea.

it can distract him, at least.

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hope that fic was alright. it ends abruptly bc im tired and sad and cant put more effort lol- kudos and comments are appreciated.
> 
> thank you for reading


End file.
